


My new Reign, Bow to me

by Ki_ru



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Bandit is a tire fire, Banter, Blitz has a sweet tooth, Blitz is oblivious, Boys Kissing, Buck is too nice for his own good, Buckbeard Mountain, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Humor, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Kapkan too, Lion can burn, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misuse of chocolate syrup, POOR DOC, Sledge is a sweetheart let's be real, character death in the last one, really it's mostly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-03-05 15:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13390314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru/pseuds/Ki_ru
Summary: Collection of 5 short one-shots I've written while I procrastinate finishing longer fics, all gathered in one chapter for reading convenience. (Most of them are shameless fluff.)February '18 update!Now with 5 more one-shots! (The new ones are indexed with a 2.)Did I mention I don't like LionApril '18 update!5 more have been added (indexed 3) and to avoid a mess, I'll collect newer ones in a new fic.





	My new Reign, Bow to me

**Author's Note:**

> These are mostly written for [Mi723](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mi723), though I hope others enjoy them as well❤  
> If you want to skip to a certain drabble, use ctrl + f (or Find In Page) with the index numbers to jump to it immediately.

**1.1** Blitz adores candy. Good thing Rook is so sweet. (Blitz/Rook, fluff, T)

**1.2** Twitch finds a mistletoe. Rather, [mistlefoe](https://i.gyazo.com/db494ef5d9c491c96916434e814b69c6.png). (Blitz/Rook, fluff, G)

**1.3** Blitz and Rook are on vacation. Also, Blitz is an idiot. (Blitz/Rook, fluff, G) - a dear darling friend of mine composed [a song](https://soundcloud.com/gorodal/chalet) based on this! Please check it out and leave him some love :)

**1.4** Bandit has a bad day. (Bandit/Blitz, _NO FLUFF_ , M)

**1.5** Glaz implicitly makes a bet with Kapkan. (Kapkan/Glaz, fluff, T)

**2.1** Bandit looks out for his friends even if it means fighting a lion. (possibly Bandit/Doc, fluff, G)

**2.2** Doc is unhappy with Lion’s presence, so Bandit takes care of it. (Bandit/Doc, Bandit/Lion, non-con elements, M)

**2.3** Jäger weaponises public displays of affection. (Bandit/Jäger, fluff, T)

**2.4** Buck is in love and forgiving, Blackbeard is a disaster. (Blackbeard/Buck, feelios, G)

**2.5** Three times Sledge lifts Blitz in public and one time he doesn’t. (Sledge/Blitz, all the fluff, T)

**3.1** Tachanka likes them young - or does he? (Tachanka/Kapkan, fluff, G)

**3.2** Rook wants to make sure his Valentine’s date is perfect. (Blitz/Rook, fluff, G)

**3.3** Blitz tries to cheer up Rook in the hospital. (Blitz/Rook, fluff, T)

**3.4** Buck offers a straight razor shave as a birthday gift. (Jackal/Buck, fluff, G)

**3.5** Jackal and Buck used to be happy. Used to be. (Jackal/Buck, NOTHING BUT ANGST, T)

 

**1.1** Blitz/Rook

 

“I definitely would’ve shot him if you hadn’t”, Mute stubbornly insists, petulantly gathering his equipment and checking his signal disruptors for damage as he always does after a mission. Whenever they’ve had to defend a VIP or a bomb threatening to go off, their clean-up feels cathartic, a ritual soothing their frazzled nerves, a rite telling them _you did good, you saved someone today_. It’s welcome after all the carnage they wreak.

“You can’t shoot for shit”, Rook fires back, unimpressed and with his mouth full. Since his job is by far the easiest to clean up, he just needs to collect their trauma plates and shove them back into the duffel bag whence they came, he’s usually busy with running commentary and more or less witty remarks about his fellow operators. Right now, he’s stuffing his face with a chocolate-covered cereal bar and standing in the way of pretty much _everyone_ , a talent carefully cultivated.

Blitz is taking turns watching him enviously and helping Kapkan unscrew his EDDs from God knows where. He’s unexpectedly ravenous after all this excitement, eyeing Rook’s snack greedily. It’s not a well-known fact, but Blitz has a sweet tooth rivalling that of his fellow French operator – it doesn’t conform with his image as fearless, heroic leader and so people tend to overlook the sweets almost literally pouring out of his pockets whenever he’s not on duty. He forgot to transfer any of them into his uniform this morning though and so he’s suffering withdrawal.

“Brag about it”, Mute shoots back sulkily.

Rook looks like he’s going to until Blitz steps up to him and points towards the barricade blocking their way out of the claustrophobic room. “Why don’t you tear this down so you can do something constructive?”, Blitz suggests. The distraction seems innocent enough, Rook turns to the direction Blitz is indicating and the German takes this moment to lean forward and chomp on the cereal bar.

Rook’s annoyed expression is absolutely worth it. He’s got good taste.

 

“Are you even a full-blooded Frenchman?”, Doc asks in disgust. He’s clinging onto his cup of coffee as if it’s the only thing keeping him sane this early in the morning.

“Whaf?”, Rook asks back innocently, in the middle of devouring a heart attack inducing stack of pancakes drowned in caramel syrup (seeing as Buck has hidden the maple syrup after the _incident_ ).

Blitz has just entered the room and caught the tail end of the very one-sided argument with Doc looking like he’s going to strangle his younger colleague any time soon and Rook happily munching on his lush breakfast. It’s just the three of them, the rest of their team already getting ready for departure, and after he’s entered, Doc gets up to refill the liquid he basically inhaled. “What did I miss?”, Blitz asks innocuously and takes a seat next to Rook, opens his mouth expectantly and offers a blissful smile in return for a saccharine bite of Rook’s meal.

“We French people don’t normally eat breakfast”, Doc explains, his back to them. He sounds disgruntled. “And definitely not a calorie bomb like that.”

“I think it’s delicious”, Blitz replies while maintaining eye contact with Rook. He hides a smile when the other operator drops his fork with a clatter. There are sugary smears on his cheeks, he probably ate too fast at this early hour, not that anyone could blame him. Without thinking, Blitz scoots towards him, bringing their faces closer and licks a little bit of the caramel off of his cheek. It tastes _wonderful_.

Not as wonderful as the alarmed and slightly disbelieving expression on Rook’s face though. When Doc turns back to them, Blitz pretends to have no idea why the young operator’s face is so red.

 

It becomes a habit.

Blitz doesn’t even notice until Rook yells at him to stop invading his personal space and stuffing his pockets with candy just so he can sneakily attempt to steal them back during meetings or meals (“Who even eats gummy bears during dinner? _During_ , you absolute madman!”) or even _missions_ , and when he realises he’s even less inclined to stop.

Somehow, the sweets taste better when they have spent an unspecified time in Rook’s trousers. …Blitz decides not to dwell on this fact. Instead, he sneaks bites and tries to appease the Frenchman with cheeky winks and cordial smiles which actually work more often than not.

Surprisingly. …Blitz generously disregards this detail as well.

He’s currently washing off the sweat from an intense training session, his muscles pleasantly tense and tired, his body relaxed due to the hot stream of water pouring over it. His plan is to shower and head to bed immediately, regardless of Bandit’s insistent demands and Jäger’s perpetually drunken shenanigans.

A sharp sound wrenches him out of his reverie, prompting him to turn around in the cubicle. The curtain has been tugged back forcefully and judging by Rook’s determined expression, it must’ve been him.

The first thing Blitz notices is that Rook is fully and completely nude. The second thing is the bottle of chocolate syrup in his hand. He opens his mouth to comment, to ask, only nothing comes out.

Rook maintains eye contact and lifts the bottle, leans back a little and suddenly a small stream of viscous, sugary dark brown liquid is painting his chest, running down his sculpted abdomen, catching in his navel.

Blitz blindly reaches behind him, turning off the shower, and finally finds his voice. “Come on in, then”, he says hoarsely. All of a sudden, he’s not exhausted at all anymore.

Rook smirks.

  
  


**1.2** Blitz/Rook

 

“It smells like someone farted cinnamon everywhere”, Fuze complains as soon as he enters the canteen.

IQ flashes him a joyous, wide grin over her shoulder, a tray with ginger bread in her hands that she sets down to cool. “It’s almost Christmas so I thought I’d bake a little.”

“Christmas is the epitome of capitalism.” He eyes the various misshapen cookies lined up on every available horizontal surface curiously. “Can I have some?”

“So Christmas is alright as long as it means free cookies?”, IQ surmises and catches the Uzbek stuffing his face with brownies when she turns to face him again.

“These are fucking good”, Fuze mumbles without a shred of guilt and rolls his eyes at IQ’s unimpressed glare. “Alright, I’m not gonna eat any more.”

The doors burst open again and Twitch beams at them both from inside her thick coat. “Wow, these look amazing. Can I try some?”

“Of course!” IQ smiles meaningfully at a pouting Fuze while she offers the Frenchwoman some cinnamon stars.

“By the way, look what I found – I just _had_ to take it with me.” Twitch holds up a leafed twig that IQ doesn’t recognise immediately before it dawns on her. “It’s a mistletoe.”

“Oh my _God_ ”, says IQ with wide eyes. “Imagine – oh man, we have to hang that up right away.”

“No chance”, Fuze butts in. “I’m not going to kiss any of you. We should change the rules. People who are under it should have to fight.”

The two women look at each other and shrug. “I’m fine with either”, Twitch admits and IQ adds: “We can call it _mistlefoe_.”

 

The news spread like a wildfire throughout the base and it’s decided that the best place for it is right inside of the canteen doors so it’s impossible to spot from the outside (thus, people might forget about it) and yet painfully obvious once two people happen to meet underneath. Twitch and IQ continue to bake, drink hot chocolate mixed with enough orange liqueur to colour their cheeks and tease each other good-naturedly.

Every time the door opens, their attention snaps to it, their expressions expectant, only it’s a single person each time. The SAS operators even file into the kitchen one after the other, the rest waiting outside patiently so they can’t be accused of cheating. It’s largely disappointing so far yet they console themselves by reassuring each other the rest of Rainbow will have forgotten about the looming threat very soon.

And then, it happens. Two people step in, their face reddened from the crisp air outside, their bodies loose and relaxed, a bright smile on each of their faces. Blitz and Rook have stepped out early for God knows whatever reason and now return, eyes glinting and bodies close.

“Stop right there!”, Twitch yells triumphantly and the two of them halt, alarmed. The Frenchwoman points, grinning madly, and IQ says proudly: “It’s a _mistlefoe_.” She really is pleased with that pun.

Blitz and Rook look at each other for a second and a thought dawns on IQ: were the two even in the base earlier, when they’d decided -

Before either of them can explain, Rook grabs the face of his companion, suspiciously eager, and presses their lips together before releasing it again. Blitz blinks at him, stunned. Twitch and IQ share a meaningful look. Then Blitz murmurs something and Rook does it again with enough force to knock him backwards and then they’re pressed against the wall and snogging like their life depended on it.

Twitch elbows IQ in the side and both of them turn away, fighting the urge to giggle. “Should we tell them afterwards?”, IQ asks quietly.

“I’m okay with this”, Twitch replies and takes a sip of her hot chocolate.

  
  


**1.3** Blitz/Rook

 

When Rook wakes up, the other side of the expansive bed is already cold. He takes a moment to admire the luxurious décor surrounding him, not used to being confronted with dark wood and heavy furniture and loads of empty space made inviting with fluffy carpets first thing in the morning. The chalet is breathtaking and always feels like it’s sleeping, planks creaking softly and sounds being swallowed. He stretches, yawns, rolls out of bed – not bothering to dress – and makes his way down the stairs, the rug muffling his footsteps.

It’s no surprise to find Blitz in the wastefully large kitchen, humming to himself and puttering around. Whereas previous attempts at making breakfast have produced more smoke than edible food, he’s found _one_ dish he can manage: omelettes. It’s a good thing Rook loves them because he’s already eaten a whole lot and probably will continue to do so in the foreseeable future. Blitz requires less sleep and likes to please him, so he makes breakfast. Or rather, he makes _omelettes_.

He’s wearing exactly one more piece of clothing than Rook is, which sadly isn’t merely an apron but his underwear. Still, his back is warm when Rook hugs him from behind, wraps himself around him and peppers the back of his neck with kisses. They exchange fond, mumbled greetings and Blitz reaches back to squeeze his backside before continuing with his quest. If both of them weren’t still sore from various physical activities, Rook might attempt to eat Blitz for breakfast and ignore the looming threat of another omelette; he leans against the counter instead and watches his lover with a small smile.

The colourful bruises all over Blitz’ body, a testament to his stubborn inability to stay upright on skis, have barely faded and never fail to amuse Rook when he thinks back to the moment where Blitz forgot to exit the ski lift as intended and instead launched himself out of it into a pile of snow. Spending the second half of their vacation in Switzerland, each other as their only company and away from their friends and families, has proved a fantastic idea. The locals speak at least either German or French (though Rook adores the despairing look on Blitz’ face whenever anyone addresses them in Swiss-German instead), the chalet is stunning and living together is surprisingly easy.

While Blitz is chopping up whatever vegetables are left over, Rook remembers the expression on his brother’s face when they told him. It might be that Blitz is half a generation older or Rook is just fortunate, but his family was a lot more accepting than Blitz’. It put a damper on their first few days of travelling until Blitz pulled him aside at some point and reassured him that he would never let their opinions influence his decisions. Still, it eats at Rook a tiny bit still. Blitz’ brother has accused him of not being _serious_.

Looking at him now, cooking and comfortable with being mostly undressed where he steadfastly refused to sleep naked in the beginning, they’ve come a long way. And it doesn’t seem like they’re stopping any time soon. He holds the knife confidently, flashes Rook a loving smile when he reaches out to caress Blitz’ side, moves around unselfconsciously. Rook has gotten used to him.

“Do you think we should marry?”, he asks.

A beat.

“Ah _shit_ God damn mother –“, Blitz replies in a hiss.

Rook blinks blankly before he suddenly sees red where there shouldn’t be red and Blitz has _sliced his hand open_ and blood is gushing at an alarming rate. Rook can handle pressure but only if he’s _expecting_ it so now the first thing he does is panic. After he’s done with that, he grabs a towel and wraps it around Blitz’s hand and thinks _God I hope the blood washes out, the deposit was horrendous_ and has to fight down the sudden urge to laugh hysterically at himself and the entire situation.

“I’m fine, it’s nothing”, Blitz lies quite obviously through his teeth and just _stands_ there like an idiot when his wound was clearly big enough to need stitches.

Unsurprisingly, Rook has to be the mature adult and run around like a headless chicken, grabbing the first pieces of clothing he can find (the ones still strewn around the massive living room) and wrestling an entirely useless Blitz into them before putting on an outfit in which he normally wouldn’t want to be found _dead_ yet right now he couldn’t care less. He shoos Blitz out of the house after turning off the oven and making sure he’s got all the keys, manhandles him into the rental and throws his phone into his lap, telling him to look up the location of the nearest hospital.

“I could do the stitches myself, you know”, Blitz informs him politely while struggling to use the phone with one hand.

“Don’t get any blood on the seat.” Rook refuses to point out that stitching up a wound one-handedly and without proper materials will result in tears and a moderately-sized infection at best and gangrene at worst. He assumes Blitz knows anyway.

“Or I could teach you. You’ve never done it before, right?”

They are _not_ sitting in a car without moving while making pleasant small talk about playing doctor. They are _not_. Rook refuses to believe it. “Give me directions, you incompetent noodle!”

Blitz lifts his eyebrows disapprovingly like an old lady facing someone cursing up a storm. _If he tuts at me, I’m going to strangle him_ , Rook thinks. If it weren’t for the towel on Blitz’s hand slowly changing colour from a lovely pastel blue to a deep red, an outsider might think Rook was the injured one.

At last, Blitz shuts up and lets the phone take over, announcing directions in a clear voice and soothing Rook’s nerves by allowing him to merely follow orders.

The rest of the procedure is comparably unimpressive, the employees at the hospital efficient and friendly, the insurance on which Blitz insisted before they booked the flights more than worth it now and a while later, they’re back in front of the hospital, breathing in the crisp morning air and letting the snow soak into the hem of their trousers.

They look at each other. Rook still feels frazzled, the shock of seeing such an amount of blood during his vacation not yet subsided fully, while Blitz regards him with obvious affection. “You’re an idiot”, Rook tells him at the same time that Blitz says: “Yes, I do, actually.”

They stare at each other. Rook doesn’t understand right away, only when Blitz kisses him and climbs into the car with a wide grin do his words register. And Rook forgets all about the wound.

  
  


**1.4** Bandit/Blitz

 

It’s going to be one of those days.

The thrumming is faint but distinct, unmistakeable and besides, Bandit knows what to look for by now. He showers early and the splashing water muffles it, drowns it out so he doesn’t notice right away, the cold rivulets running down his body occupy his mind enough. Afterwards though, it’s beginning to pick up. A soft melody coursing through him, playing on his ribs and prompting him to hum. He stops as soon as he catches himself. He doesn’t want to telegraph it.

Small things, petty, insignificant. Someone has moved his trousers out of the way so it takes a moment for him to find them. Blitz laughs at a lame joke Twitch makes even though everyone knows she’s not funny. Bandit laces his boots wrong. Small things. Petty. Insignificant. The music swells continuously, ravenous and greedily gathering instruments from all over, a look shared by two Russians when Bandit snaps at them, Blitz frowning at him, people giggling in the distance where there should be nothing to giggle about. They join the ranks, turn into deep drumming, shrill strings.

Bandit stretches his arms, loosens up, wriggles his fingers in preparation. It’s almost time for him to begin playing. He takes his seat, listens for his cue, his hands on the keys. A deep breath. The first push of a button.

He starts out slow. A remark on Glaz’ weight, the hurt, confused look an echoing trill accompanying Bandit’s theme. Not enough. On the way to their target, an industrial area, he picks on Mute, picks him apart, references the mission the others know not to mention, Smoke’s condition has only been stable for a few days, and Bandit is witty and sharp and full of esprit. It’s elating, a continuation of his theme, more forceful and with more variation, yet he hasn’t reached his climax, not by a long shot.

A lull, stony silence, allowing him to shine by himself. He’s humming now. The vibrations are tangible, encompassing his toes and thighs and ears, the sensation almost carnal. Blitz is watching him, he can feel his gaze on the back of his neck. While they’re setting up, he collides with Dokkaebi and makes sure to both touch the exposed skin of her hands with the contact points of his CED and to make it look like it’s accidental. Her violent flinching, her widened eyes are another part in his symphony, a woeful, full-bodied cello just before the rhythm picks up again.

Their fighting is the crescendo, a cacophonous roar guiding his limbs, speeding up his reactions. He basks in the blood and gore, directs the despair and determination around him; he is a God and he alone decides who lives and who dies, he is merciless and just, driven by the ecstatic tune deep inside him and when no one is left, he turns to the only living things in his vicinity and feels white hot desire to claw, bite, rip, tear, maim.

The volume drops dramatically when Blitz’ fingers wrap around his biceps and he realises it’s almost over. The music has culminated yet proceeds to flutter in the back of his mind, a dying thing, simultaneously pitiful and perilous. It threatens to return full force any time, overtake him as soon as there are no distractions around, as soon as he sinks into the cesspool of mosquitoes flitting around inside his head, sucking his blood and making his thoughts itch.

But Blitz makes sure not to leave his side. Therein lies his most tragic flaw.

“Can we not do this?”, he asks even while they’re stepping into their usual place. His face is weary, resigned, a crack in his usual iron composure at which Bandit chips whenever he can. Any protest is useless and mere formality, his body is tense under Bandit’s relentless, skilful, dancing fingers that are flying over the keys at the same time, his lips pressed together until Bandit forces them apart with his tongue. He’s ecstatic, the melodies are culminating a second time, the last part of this fugue fast approaching. It’s unbearable in its omnipresence and Bandit claws and bites and rips and tears.

Once he’s inside, it quietens. Blitz is clenching his jaw and taking measured breaths, his brows drawn together, the sight sobering. Bandit can’t help it, he takes and takes and watches the man under him attentively, kisses the corners of his eyes and soothes scratched skin with his palms. Gradually, it fades out, is replaced by emptiness so loud it makes Bandit’s temples pulse. In the end, there’s nothing but silence, vast and unforgiving. He doesn’t lie to himself and pretends it’s why they do this. He knows he would regardless and Blitz’s cooperation is an added bonus.

Blitz is weak. His flaw is compassion, his fault is wanting to save everyone around him.

“You should talk to someone”, he whispers.

“Yeah”, Bandit agrees. Both of them know he won’t. He rests his forehead on Blitz’ chest, feels his heartbeat and enjoys the moment. It’s quiet again. It feels like waking up. He wonders why Blitz is the only one who has this effect.

  
  


**1.5** Kapkan/Glaz

 

A whip crack resounding in the thick summer air, slicing through heavy humidity and echoing off in the distance. “You son of a wet noodle”, Glaz breathes softly and furrows his brows, squinting disapprovingly through the scope to find his target undisturbed, gently blowing in the wind.

“You curse like a girl”, Kapkan tells him without looking up from his small sculpture. It’s not entirely clear what it’s supposed to be, but if Glaz had to guess, he’d have said a mixture of Sledge and a tragically disabled aardvark. Kapkan has recently picked up the hobby of carving and is still in the honeymoon phase, as the rest of Spetsnaz likes to call it, meaning he genuinely believes it’s going to work out and refuses to accept any criticism. It usually lasts two weeks, then the five stages of grief begin until the Russian finds a new hobby and delves into it head first.

“Didn’t you hear Mira when she dropped Montagne’s shield on her foot?”, comes a laconic remark from the side, “Cursing like a girl is a compliment.” Tachanka lies poured onto a sun lounger, ironically so since he wishes nothing more than to escape the heat. The ice in his glass of water has long melted and normally he wouldn’t grace the younger operators with his presence at these temperatures, were it not for the remnants of the stink bomb that Smoke accidentally detonated in the base. Sun is easier to stomach than a stench so bad it made even Smoke himself gag.

“This shot is impossible.” Glaz sits up annoyed and searches for the scarf without the help of any magnification, doesn’t find it – unsurprisingly. Kapkan has tied it somewhere onto a tree and Glaz uses it as practise, though it seems Kapkan overestimated his abilities when he chose their spot earlier. They usually spend the afternoons together, only Fuze absent today.

“Nothing is impossible”, Kapkan objects and almost hacks off his middle finger. Watching him usually gives Glaz mini heart attacks. “You’re just not trying enough.”

His patience is waning. He’s been attempting the shot for almost an hour now, adjusting for wind and distance and whatnot, and is almost at the point where he declares defeat. He’s sweaty and hungry and the steady bitching from the old man and the irregular sounds of Kapkan chipping away at his _abomination_ are getting to him. “Oh yeah?”, he snaps back without meaning to. “Why don’t _you_ try it then?”

Astonishingly, Kapkan agrees. He shouldn’t, he’s always been terrible at sniping and it’ll be a wonder if he doesn’t take out Tachanka’s lukewarm water instead. “What’s the closest thing you’ve hit?”, he asks and drops his carving into the impressive pile of not-quite sawdust at his feet from which he might never rescue it again. Maybe that’s actually the plan.

“Trunk of the tree it’s tied to”, Glaz replies and doesn’t care that he’s pouting now. He dislikes being bested, often refuses to even allow for the chance – he knows Kapkan won’t make it, yet the mere _thought_ of it is distasteful. He stands up and stretches his stiff legs, can’t suppress a yawn and gestures for his teammate to take his place behind his rifle.

“I don’t know why you’re even trying”, Tachanka mumbles what everyone’s thinking from behind his oversized sunglasses. He’s yet to move a muscle since he’s taken up post on the sunbed.

“Don’t underestimate me.” Kapkan wiggles his eyebrows at Glaz (who merely returns his gaze unamused) and lies down on the cool dirt floor. He’s wearing a simple t-shirt that flatters his toned arms and rides up a little while he’s making himself comfortable, exposing a pale strip of skin unmarred by the merciless sun. Glaz is not staring. He’s _not_.

“You’re not going to make it”, he points out and crosses his arms. No answer from Kapkan who’s lining up the shot. “If you make it, I will _literally_ suck your dick.”

It’s a phrase that’s basically lost all meaning during the few weeks they’ve used it, Fuze overheard it from Mute maybe or Rook and turned it into the ultimate dare, the others adapting and jokingly repeating it every time one of them attempts anything vaguely impossible. So far, no one has managed. Glaz steals some of Tachanka’s water while Kapkan wastes the first bullet. It’s not going to happen now and in a few weeks they’ll start using a different inside joke and –

“You’d better come see this”, says Kapkan and there’s something in his voice that makes Glaz’ stomach drop abruptly. He almost spits out the water and wastes no time in joining his fellow countryman on the ground, pushing him out of the way and checking the scope. He realises too late that it’s going to be a prank that he fell for _again_ , as he usually does, and that Kapkan will begin laughing at him any moment now. Only… no one is laughing.

There’s a hole in the scarf.

Glaz blinks, not comprehending what his eyes are telling him. He’s acutely aware of the uncomfortably warm body next to him and his own breathing and the innocent words he’s uttered without thinking. There’s no chance he’ll ever live this down. “You’re fucking kidding me”, he whispers because he can’t help himself.

“There you go, use grown-up swears.” Kapkan sounds _highly_ amused. “You know what this means, right?”

“No way in hell did he make the shot”, Tachanka slurs from his deathbed.

“He fucking made the _fucking shot_.” Glaz is _furious_. Mostly at himself for not accomplishing what Kapkan managed _first try_.

“Ooh, sounds like someone needs to walk off the rage”, Kapkan continues teasing him while wearing a shit eating grin that does nothing to alleviate Glaz’ frustration. “We can go to the shed to get some water, I’m dying of thirst. Want us to refill your glass, ‘Chanka? It’s probably at a nice kiddie pool temperature at this point.”

“With less piss”, is Tachanka’s only reply and so Kapkan takes it, pours the water into the nearest bush and repeats meaningfully: “ ‘ _Less_.’ ”

They walk back to ‘the shed’, a tiny hut in the woods not far from the base containing various tools, chairs and a sink with running water that’s pleasantly cool even in this season. “I can’t believe you made it”, Glaz grumbles on the way, shaking his head. “How did you even – you _couldn’t_ have –”

“But I did, and isn’t that a shame.” Kapkan holds the door open for him and if nothing else has made Glaz suspicious until now, this gesture undoubtedly _should_. His alarm bells should be going off full force. Yet all he does is ponder the _impossibility_ of Kapkan’s feat, whether he’s made any glaring mistakes himself, whether he should take apart his sniper rifle to find the reason. “Do you want to get it over with right away?”

His thoughts grind to a halt. He stops. Turns towards Kapkan and finds the door to the tiny building shut and the Russian frightfully close to him. “What -” His voice breaks, he averts his gaze, tries again. “What are you talking about?”

“You said it yourself. You can’t back off now. A deal’s a deal.” Kapkan sounds _reasonable_ , which is the worst thing about it, he’s reassuring him and makes the _outrageous_ demand seem sensible.

“You’re not serious.” The _I hope_ is implied though Glaz can’t bring himself to voicing it. His thighs are growing weaker by the second. This is another joke. It has to be.

“I’m deadly serious”, says Kapkan and he does seem sincere – though he’s an excellent liar when he wants to be. “You’re not one to shun a challenge, are you?”

He pictures it. For one glorious second, he toys with the idea of just yanking down Kapkan’s pants right here and is overcome with a heat wave not only induced by the stuffy air in the shed. “I didn’t mean it”, he insists, “you’re pulling my leg, you _know_ I didn’t mean it, don’t be so…”

“If you really want to do it, you’d better get on your knees.” Kapkan is entirely unbothered by his words, smirking and placing a hand on Glaz’ shoulder, but what _really_ constitutes the last straw is that his thumb brushes over Glaz’ collarbone in a gesture that is entirely too familiar and, most of all, _suggestive_. He opens his mouth to protest and doesn’t expect the _push_ and his legs buckle and suddenly he’s kneeling on the dusty floorboards, his eyes level with Kapkan’s belt.

Okay. Sure. He can salvage this. His dignity has only suffered a little. Kapkan doesn’t know Glaz is half-hard right now and in this position he’s not going to find out either. Convenient, really. “I’m _not_ going to suck you off.” He enunciates each word clearly in case Kapkan decides to be hard of hearing all of a sudden. “You’re being ridiculous. Where is this even coming from?”

“Look, do you want me to tell everyone that you never _really_ did Sledge’s dare? Huh? I’ve kept quiet as a favour but I could -”

This is when Glaz understands. Kapkan facetiously blackmails people all the time, threatens to enlighten the world about Fuze’s showering habits if he doesn’t stop stealing his food, tells Smoke he’s going to expose his contraband hiding spots whenever he refuses to cease his current shenanigans (which is always), it happens a lot. What most people don’t know: Kapkan is usually not joking. Not really.

Just like he isn’t now.

Their gazes are locked, Kapkan’s considerably less confident than a few seconds ago, he must’ve realised his blunder, must know he’s _betrayed_ himself. He’s looking down at Glaz like a trapped animal, ready to lash out or flee and chooses the second option, switches to the first when Glaz instinctively reaches out and grabs his trouser leg, keeps him in place. They scuffle briefly and hardly with any force behind it and somehow Kapkan loses balance and stumbles and one of his hands lands on the back of Glaz’ head and the next thing he knows is that his face is pressed into Kapkan’s crotch.

All he can think is: _Oh_.

Because there’s something quite obvious denting his cheek.

The door flies open. “You almost hit me _holy shit_ what are you two doing?!” That voice unmistakably belongs to Fuze who’s standing in the doorway in casual clothing plus a handgun by his side and looking like he just ran a marathon, of which Glaz takes note after Kapkan panics and shoves him away so he’s again able to see something other than the seam of Kapkan’s trousers. To his knowledge, Fuze is supposed to be somewhere completely different while dressed completely different.

_You almost hit me_. Fuze has a gun for no apparently reason. Together with the guilty and fantastically _sheepish_ look on Kapkan’s face, it’s easy to connect the dots, so Glaz starts laughing. Fuze looks utterly lost by now. “You _didn’t_ fucking make the shot”, Glaz wheezes and would double over if he was standing. He’s dying to know how Kapkan managed to convince Fuze for his participation. It’s an impressively elaborate plan just to coerce him into doing something he would’ve done voluntarily and might’ve done regardless hadn’t Kapkan wounded Glaz’ brittle pride with the claim of sniping better than him.

He can hardly stop giggling, especially when faced with Kapkan’s stony face and the mumbled “let’s never talk about this again, alright?” and Fuze’s dumb ignorant expression. They gather a few chairs, fill up water bottles and Tachanka’s glass and refuse to answer any of Fuze’s increasingly irritated questions.

When they’re about done, Glaz turns to Kapkan and tells him with a bright smile: “You could’ve just asked, you know?” Leaving him to figure out what to do with that information, he steps out of the hut into the sweltering sunshine.

  
  


**2.1** Bandit/Doc

 

“This looks nasty”, Doc states matter-of-factly as he cuts open the soaked jeans to knee level, for now ignoring the massive gash on the lower leg to which Blitz is applying pressure as instructed.

“Your mum looks nasty”, Bandit shoots back, unimpressed yet sharply sucking in air through his teeth when Doc lifts his leg remorselessly to push the denim out of the way.

“Be careful, he’s a delicate flower.” Blitz’ lips are pressed together, the disapproval clearly written on his face, sparing Doc the usual task of admonishing Bandit, Blitz undoubtedly already having done so on the way.

“What was it this time?” With practised ease, Doc shoos the other German away and cleans the wound that’s still pulsing crimson blood all over his floor, warm even through his gloves. Hardly anyone spends as much time in Doc’s office as Bandit does: ever since Rainbow has formed, he’s a regular customer and a week without a visit from him exceedingly rare. At first, he thought it was his confrontational nature, his rare skill to piss off literally everyone around him, his creative insults and uncaring attitude – but Doc wasn’t giving his fellow operators enough credit. Most of them don’t allow themselves to be provoked.

There’s a pattern, though it’s hard to notice. Doc stumbled over it on accident, happened to overhear a conversation between the Russians calling Blitz’ competence into question after a gruesome mission that probably ended better than it should have, yet forced some sacrifices Kapkan didn’t agree with. A few days later, Bandit comes in and asks for painkillers, shows off a line of bruises that have barely formed and look uncomfortable. Turns out, Kapkan found a used tampon in his food and figured out pretty quickly who graced him with the sight, taking swift revenge. A couple of dots for Doc to connect – and together with the details from other injuries, other fights, he can just about make out the full picture.

Bandit’s jokes don’t become genuinely mean unless he feels it’s justified.

Blitz probably has noticed the vengeful guardian angel watching over him, punishing obstacles in his way without anyone linking their misdeeds to Bandit’s pranks. Jäger remains blissfully unaware, that much is clear, Bandit’s abrasive exterior continues to fool him. Over the months, years, Bandit’s protective wings spread further and further, extending even to Mute and Lesion, especially in missions, resulting in more and more dangerous injuries caused by reckless behaviour, therefore more visits to Doc and somehow…

Somewhere, along the way, amid the snappy responses and self-deprecation, the weakness shown only to Doc when they’re alone and he’s patching the German up, amid the white lies, his refusal to take credit, the way he relaxes as soon as he feels Doc’s hands on him – somewhere, along the way, Doc got attached.

It’s a distant thing, one he keeps under control very carefully, monitors to make sure it doesn’t grow out of hand, like a tumour. If it gets too large, he’ll have to cut it out. Bandit is not a nice man. They’ve talked about substance abuse, residual trauma, nightmares, coping mechanisms, remorse. Doc is no psychiatrist but he knows Bandit’s systematic rejection of his attempts to help are far from healthy. So he stays away.

To be perfectly honest, part of what he feels is envy. Everyone in Rainbow respects him, he’s built up friendships and is certain they would walk through fire for him just like he for them. Still, Bandit is something else. Doc is pretty sure he even secretly steps in for Rook even though they hate each others’ guts.

His envy stems from the fact that Bandit treats him no differently to those he doesn’t care about. No matter how deep Doc probes, how often he stitches him back together, all he earns are slightly hurtful, mocking remarks. That… pulsing thing inside him wants more. Maybe it’s not envy at all. Maybe it’s jealousy.

“I don’t even know”, Blitz drags him back to the present, Doc’s hands still occupied stitching up the wound almost absent-mindedly, routine taking over. “I looked away for a second and the next thing I see is an actual fist fight. Lion’s even worse off, I believe, but he said he’s going to tend to his own injuries.”

Doc’s hands still for a moment before they resume dressing the gash. He feels Bandit’s eyes on him, he must’ve noticed the short pause. Him trading blows with Lion comes out of the blue, the newly arrived Frenchman had barely enough time to introduce himself yet and even though several other operators have expressed their scepticism about him, there’s no reason for Bandit to strike yet. Unless.

“I wouldn’t dare to show my face if he didn’t look worse than I do”, Bandit retorts and Blitz rolls his eyes.

“You knocked him out and then fell over a bench. Don’t pretend it was anything heroic.”

“Kindly fuck off. I fell _heroically_ over that rusty thing.”

“You know what, I’ll leave you to it. You can hobble back on your own.”

As soon as the team leader leaves, they grow silent. Doc’s thoughts are going haywire, flitting around in his head yet his lips stay sealed. Once he’s done, he gets up, peels his gloves off, washes his hands. Bandit’s eyes never leave him. He looks wild, hair standing up, several smaller scratches and bruises on his hands and face, jeans cut open and crusted with his blood, the bandage around his leg unnaturally pristine. “Why did you fight?”, Doc can’t help but ask.

Bandit doesn’t smirk, doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t change topics. Instead, he says: “Asshole thought he could talk shit.” _About you_ , he doesn't say.

And Doc finally understands. There was just no one to protect him from. It wasn’t negligence, not absence of care, there simply was no necessity. Until now.

Lion’s presence, previously causing Doc headaches, suddenly doesn't seem so suffocating anymore.

  
  


**2.2** Bandit/Doc, Bandit/Lion

 

“So what’s the deal with the sour attitude? Got diddled as a kid?”

Scandalised silence befalls the small group gathered around the new addition to Rainbow. They’ve been training and are using the small break as an opportunity to mob the recently arrived Frenchman – in this case, _they_ meant the ones who haven’t met Lion before or refuse to care about his reputation. Smoke especially seems curious about him in a detached way that feels more like gathering ammunition than genuine interest. Most of them have realised the newcomer reeks of trouble.

It’s like a car accident that’s too gruesome to tear one’s eyes away. Anything involving Bandit usually deteriorates to something similar and every time, Doc is unable to interfere right away, instead he pauses in horror, a tiny voice inside him urging him to just _watch_ , let it happen and pick up the pieces afterwards. The damage is already done, anyway. So he doesn’t step in until Lion’s face has contorted in rage and he’s shot up like something bit him, approaching Bandit with the clear intention to inflict _hurt_ in whatever way possible. Doc knows something Lion doesn’t: it’s nigh impossible to hurt Bandit by attacking him directly. Physical pain means nothing to him and insults are utterly insignificant. Doc knows where to hit Bandit so it hurts. He’s never used that knowledge.

“That’s enough”, he hears himself say loudly and is almost surprised. Belatedly, he makes his way over to the small crowd, wraps his fingers around Bandit’s biceps but refrains from pulling. He doesn’t need to. “Come with me.” And like a docile animal, the German tags along though he lights a cigarette while doing so, aware of how much Doc despises the habit.

“You hate his guts”, Bandit mumbles around it and inhales deeply. His breath is calm but his limbs tense, he was prepared for a fight.

“Stop pretending this is about me.”

An amused smile, misplaced in the uncomfortable atmosphere that accompanies a bored Bandit wherever he goes. “Stop pretending it isn’t.”

“We’re professionals. I ask you again to leave him alone.”

“You only ask me that because your conscience doesn’t allow you to ask the opposite.” With a smug grin, he brushes Doc’s temple with a fingertip, causing a tingling sensation. “I know what’s going on in here – you want me to break him. And if you don’t say the word, I will.”

“Bandit.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. At times, Bandit reminds him of a puppy with sharp teeth, playfully biting at others, oblivious to how much pain he actually inflicts. Right now, he’s not a puppy at all. And he’s pulling on his leash. “Don’t. Please. Don’t make it worse than it already is.”

“Not the right word”, is the quiet reply and Bandit is too fast for him, leans forward and drags his tongue over Doc’s lower lip in a quick swipe before turning away and walking back, chuckling to himself.

Doc wonders whether there actually _is_ a correct word.

 

_Heater room_.

He stares at the ominous text message mutely, battling with himself. Every alarm bell is shrieking in his head and he’s yet to move a muscle – a part of him is appalled at his inaction, calls upon his principles, his ethics. It takes him three minutes to finally get up, leave his office, head downstairs. He feels no trepidation, no fear of the unknown for he’s pretty sure he knows what he’ll find.

There’s a row of everyday objects, neatly arranged so there’s no ambiguity about them: a lighter, scissors, a small knife, a screwdriver, a few pushpins, a salt shaker. The last one is the closest to Lion’s knee, close to the pipe to which he’s tied, arms uncomfortably fixed behind his back, a cloth run from between his teeth to said pipe preventing him from turning his head away, leaving him no choice but to stare straight ahead at Bandit’s dick.

“You decided to show for the grand finish?”, Bandit greets Doc with a lopsided smirk, slightly out of breath, his one hand moving steadily over his exposed length, the other carding through Lion’s short hair in a laughable parody of a loving touch. “I was just asking him whether he’d prefer to be fucked or experimented on. I’ve never ripped off anyone’s fingernails before.” His head tilts back with a showy moan and his strokes stop, thick ropes hitting the Frenchman’s face, painting it white while Lion protests unintelligibly around the gag, his eyes wide in panic and disgust, his head straining against the confines.

Doc is not a vengeful man. He’d like to keep holding on to this belief, however, something deep down can’t help but enjoy the sight of the terrified man in front of him, defiled and humiliated at Bandit’s hands. He suppresses the emotion and instead responds: “That’s _quite_ enough. If I ever catch you looking at him wrong again, I’ll report you. I’m serious. Cut him loose.” With crossed arms, he watches as Bandit flashes him a wolfish grin, tucks himself away and then unties Lion. The Frenchman is proud, he’ll keep silent. Bandit knows this as well as Doc does. As expected, Lion rushes out of the room after a few French curses, furiously wiping at his face with the hem of his shirt.

“See if he ever gives you trouble outside of missions again.”

“Nothing about this is funny.”

“Are you sure?” Bandit laughs and starts gathering up his utensils. Bandit is the scapegoat, Doc the rescuer. Lion’s blood must be boiling about being saved by none other than him.

It is a _little_ funny.

“You weren’t actually going to torture him”, Doc states, thinking back to the message. Bandit wanted to be found out.

“Of course not.” A wink. “Not unless you wanted me to.”

  
  


**2.3** Bandit/Jäger

 

He discovers it purely by accident, never would he have thought it to have such an immediate, piercing and _satisfying_ effect, something this simple.

They’re breathing in the crisp English country air after having decided to take a detour through the fields, nothing around them but gentle hills and vibrant grass illuminated by the setting summer sun. Jäger is trailing behind the others while conversing with Thermite, both of them slurring their words slightly and yet understanding each other perfectly. The laughter of the larger group in front of them is mostly swallowed by the fertile ground over which they’re dragging their feet, leading to a muffled, comfortable, intimate atmosphere. Jäger’s skin is prickling and each breath feels divine. He’s never felt more alive than here, in the company of people he trusts.

It’s not hard to guess what’s coming when Bandit splits off from the others, turns around and, while walking backwards, winks at Jäger, a shit eating grin lighting up his face. “Hey”, he says loudly, unnecessarily so since as soon as his attention shifts to his boyfriend that everyone knows of and he would never publicly admit to, expectant silence spreads. “When I fell earlier, I think my cock died. Can I bury it in your ass?”

He’s used to this. At first, Bandit’s complete and utter inability to behave any differently around him even if they’re sharing so much now (kisses, a bed, a passion for terrible action films, all of their free time) irritated him, prompted him to try and change this nonchalant approach to their relationship. It still frustrates him at times, though not right now. In this magical moment, he looks at the slim silhouette, framed by the bright orange glow of the sky behind him and feels nothing but contentment and gratitude.

While Thermite laughs good-naturedly and Ash hoots something unintelligible, Jäger speeds up his steps to catch up with Bandit, smugly observes how his grin fades the closer he gets, Bandit obviously expecting to be punched or scolded. Instead, both of them stop walking at the same time and Jäger holds him in place, leans in and locks their lips. It’s not the drunken making out they’re used to, it’s unhurried and short and sweet, unlike anything they usually do. He doesn’t taste Bandit’s tongue, just kisses him gently to convey all the affection he feels right then.

After they’ve separated again, they stare at each other, Jäger with a smile and Bandit disbelieving; it takes him exactly three seconds to turn an extremely interesting shade of red that Jäger has not seen before. Castle calls them adorable and the colour deepens, Bandit snaps at him and turns away abruptly, continues following the others.

And Jäger looks after him, barely suppressing the urge to laugh and wondering whether he can use this newfound knowledge of Bandit’s bashfulness in the face of loving gestures in the future.

 

It turns out he can. Bandit’s mood is inexplicably rotten one day and to spare everyone else from his vitriolic side, Jäger makes sure to dampen his ire by accompanying him wherever he paces. At some point, they’re listening to Blitz and Sledge bicker over something insignificant and Bandit looks like he’s about to blow up in their faces, so Jäger steps a little closer and slides his hand into Bandit’s, interlocks their fingers and just holds on. Bandit’s mouth snaps shut with an audible sound and his eyes are drawn to where their skin is touching, innocent and warm. Jäger feels the suspicious gaze bore into his skull while he attempts to settle the argument between his two friends and caresses Bandit’s thumb with his own at the same time.

After a few more incidents (for example when he repeatedly ran his fingers through Bandit’s short hair, making him struggle to pay attention to the electrical wires before him), Bandit complains. It’s an offhanded remark, casual, yet the annoyance behind it is tangible. “You can’t keep touching me like that in public”, he finishes. “That shit is fucking gay.”

Jäger’s lips twitch but he knows not to comment on this. He is prepared. It’s not like this comes out of the blue – to be honest, he expected it much earlier, maybe after the time he put his head on his shoulder during the car ride back from the pub and could notice Bandit trying to sit as still as possible. “I would like to, though”, he replies sincerely and renders Bandit at a loss for words, so he makes use of his momentary silence and adds: “If you like, we can practise without anyone watching.”

Of course, Bandit is outraged over pretty much everything Jäger is implying with his suggestion and sulks for a few days before he finally relents, agrees to at least try it out if Jäger is so dead set on it, sure, he’ll generously do him this favour, allow Jäger to be affectionate at him. He plants himself in front of Jäger, almost looking like he expects a physical altercation of the violent kind. “Okay. Hit me.”

And Jäger smiles and, for the first time, says: “I love you.”

Bandit’s expression slowly slips into a mix of shock and embarrassment that Jäger enjoys a whole lot. “What the fuck?”, Bandit responds. His voice is disbelieving, higher pitched than normal and sounds close to dying, his cheeks rapidly colouring.

Jäger can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him this time at seeing his boyfriend so thunderstruck. He pushes him against the nearest wall and kisses him breathless (which doesn’t take long at all), snuggling into the tight hug he receives in return.

  
  


**2.4** Blackbeard/Buck

 

A small smile, a little awkward, eyes cast down. Buck’s body is angled away from him after his harsh words and yet he smiles, as always, refuses to object, follows the given instructions silently, gathering the utensils from his breakfast and putting them away while the cornflakes he abandoned soak up the milk slowly, turning soggy. He reminds Blackbeard of a … dog, in a way, obeying and submissive and the thought fuels his irritation. “Did you hear what I said?”, he insists and almost expects the Canadian to flinch at his tone. He doesn’t. Not anymore.

Buck pauses and _doesn’t_ make the mistake of sighing, agitating him further. Not anymore. Instead, he turns to Blackbeard with a weary look in his eyes and replies ever so gently: “Yes. I did. I’m sorry for not cleaning up after myself.” His gaze is unwavering and the intensity of it drills directly into Blackbeard's core, quenching the fire that’s begun to flare up. The last time Buck looked at him like this, they ended up raw and mentally scratched up, shivering and feeling ugly. The smile has faded.

“Back off, Craig”, Valkyrie butts in from the table, sipping coffee and reading the news on her phone. The whole situation is obviously familiar enough for her to not even look up. The realisation feels like a stab in the chest. “Don’t be an asshole.”

He opens his mouth to defend himself and already knows he’ll come off as an even bigger asshole as he always seems to do, somehow, only Buck beats him to it: “It’s fine, Valk. Don’t worry.” The smile is back, wider, genuine, directed at Valkyrie and Blackbeard tries to remember how they ended up here. What started out so innocent as…

No.

It was never innocent. He misjudged Buck in the beginning, saw ulterior motives where there were none, his suspicions trampling all over the other man’s compassion. There were a few moments: when Blackbeard was ill and Buck made him forget about his stuffed nose and splitting headache completely, their first kiss under a clear sky after spending an hour talking about the best experiences throughout their entire career, Buck’s laughs easy and continuing to ripple in Blackbeard's innards. Apart from that – he’d be hard pressed to pinpoint the moments that caused Buck to trip and fall this viciously.

He waits until they’re alone, Buck lingering as well, watching him with a guarded expression that’s become the norm somewhen along the line, a result of distance and unprovoked anger. Blackbeard can’t stand his presence, he’s a personified accusation that’s entirely appropriate and he wishes it away, wishes for something different and _knows_ he could make it happen. Buck would allow him to try again. Buck allows him almost everything.

Leaning against the counter, he waits, paralysed, unable to approach the other man yet begging him wordlessly. When Buck joins him, his arms stop tingling and itching once they’re wrapped around the lithe, warm body, pulling it close and holding on to something he’s sure to lose. Their beards rasp against each other and Blackbeard can’t help the spark of desire at the sensation, reminding him of the time he left a dark purple mark on the side of Buck’s neck while lost in pleasure. The memory is bittersweet. He demanded Buck cover it up afterwards.

The man in his arms takes a deep breath and rests his forehead on Blackbeard's shoulder. “I’m just so tired”, he whispers.

“I know.” He is, too. For a lack of a better response, he draws meaningless patterns with his fingertips, restless even when he’s exactly where he wants to be.

“And I can’t quit you. I wish I knew how.”

The tone of his voice once made Blackbeard's blood freeze. It doesn’t anymore. He stays mute: it’s not the same for him. He _has_ to have an exit strategy, needs to plan for the inevitable. Eventually, Buck will leave. He _needs_ to be prepared. Maybe that’s the whole reason he behaves this way, attempting to get it over sooner rather than later.

He wishes he knew how to decide to stay.

  
  


**2.5** Sledge/Blitz

 

“I can _absolutely_ lift you”, Sledge states without even a shred of doubt in his voice. He’s leaning against the cold concrete wall of the shooting range, his muscled arms crossed and his posture nonchalant, though even when he’s not standing at his full height, he’s massive and exudes an aura of danger the way a resting lion does, majestic yet lazy. He’s one of those people who don’t talk much but when they do, you better listen – yet admittedly he sounds less imposing than he looks, the Scottish drawl almost endearing. Still. Blitz would give one of his fingers to be remotely as cool as the Scotsman.

“Yes, I believe you”, he responds with an eager nod; he’s only been joking in an attempt to get the tall man to notice him anyway, he never meant to question his abilities and hopes his remark won’t anger Sledge. “I was just -”

“I don’t”, Smoke cuts in with a cheeky grin. “Guess you’ll have to prove it, mate.”

Sledge’s hazel eyes meet Blitz’ and for a heartbeat, he’s unsure how to react. He stayed after target practice to socialise with the SAS operators since he hasn’t found the time in his busy schedule to closely acquaint himself with everyone yet. So far, he’s heard impressive stories about Mute, awe-inspiring ones about Thatcher and terrifying ones about Smoke. Their chosen leader remains a bit of a mystery to him, obviously confident and competent, which is an added bonus to the fact that he’s as solid as a rock, towering over Blitz and rarely letting his impassive façade slip. “I guess you better lie down for this, lad”, he tells Blitz with a pure what-can-you-do shrug.

They decide to relocate after Mute draws their attention to the low ceiling, so the SAS saunter outside, relaxed and exchanging quips while Blitz follows them, idly debating whether he should think of an excuse to get out of this or whether Smoke wouldn’t let him. Sledge indicates the ground and, with an air of routine, adds: “Keep your body tension up or you’ll flop around like a fish.” Blitz wonders how often he’s done this before.

He does as he’s told, ignores the amused glances of the Englishmen around him and then suddenly, hands grab his body, one hooks around his thigh, the other wraps around his biceps and then he’s almost _flung_ up before he even registers what’s happening. Barely managing to keep his limbs stiff, he feels the strong hands adjust their grip during the split second he’s suspended in mid-air, and then he’s hoisted up completely and basically planking while being held up high over Sledge’s head, the hands now on the backs of his thighs and between his shoulder blades and he notices that he’s not even _worried_ because he trusts the Scotsman not to let him fall.

“You’re so light, you could sit on my back while I do push-ups”, Sledge informs amusedly him to the polite clapping of his teammates and Blitz offers a strangled, nervous laugh.

 

“Blitz, come on. We’re back. Get up.”

A remorseless elbow pokes him in the side, waking him quite rudely out of the dazed half-sleep he’s allowed himself for the duration of the car ride. He’s been on his feet for nearly two full days now, a combination of a particularly tricky and draining mission and seemingly endless travelling that’s been preventing him from resting any sooner, so he’s hopelessly fatigued on top of mentally exhausted. Blearily, he blinks into the lights of their base and climbs out of the vehicle, knees almost buckling and staggering to the side to let the others pour out as well. He collides with something solid and warm, feels an arm around his shoulders and then a voice is booming right by his ear.

He’s too tired to understand what’s being said so he just rests his head against the source of the noise which turns out to be Sledge’s broad chest. From the sounds of it, he’s already heard about the results and is lightening the mood with a few witty comments, encouraging them, distracting them from the fact that most of them are falling asleep standing up. _That’s my job_ , Blitz thinks distantly but he’s relieved about the unprompted assistance – he couldn’t have mustered up the strength, not in this state.

A mental note: he needs to thank Sledge for the friendly welcome tomorrow. They’ve gotten to know each other better over the past weeks, often spending their breaks together and exchanging tactical advice which is always entertaining because of Sledge’s unending sports allegories. His company is welcome and pleasant and if Blitz can make use of their time together to sneak peeks at his powerful legs, well, even better.

“Let’s get you to bed, mate”, he hears the shockingly familiar accent next to his ear and then there’s movement, his support is gone and he wobbles for the second it takes Sledge to turn around and squat down a little. “Hop on.”

Blitz _doesn’t_ hop on, mostly because he doesn’t want the Scotsman to faceplant into the dirt, so instead he kind of just… falls forward, slings his arms around his neck and allows Sledge to take hold of his thighs, effortlessly drawing him close into a proper piggyback. His mind barely registers what he’s doing, only that relaxing becomes an option now. He melts on Sledge’s back, resting his chin on his shoulder, slipping further down with every step so that the tall man has to stop and adjust several times.

Even through the layers of clothes, Sledge is a source of wonderful, comforting heat against which Blitz snuggles up contentedly, his fingers idly tracing the collarbone, sternum, ribs underneath their tips, slightly digging into the firm pecs and Blitz is not even aware of what he’s doing, he’s so out of it. A few times, door frames brush the top of his head and he closes his eyes as soon as they enter the well-lit building, the steady movements of Sledge’s steps calming him even further.

He’s placed on his bed carefully and drifts away to the feeling of getting his shoes untied. He doesn’t realise he basically felt up Sledge’s chest groggily until the next morning and by then it’s too late to acknowledge it. So they don’t.

 

“I’m _not_ letting you borrow my swimming trunks, stop asking – what is _wrong_ with you?”

Bandit seems entirely unbothered by Jäger’s indignant outburst, courtesy of his incessant demands to hand over said piece of clothing. They’re standing by the pool, hair still damp (except for Sledge, for obvious reasons) and waiting on IQ who has to blow-dry hers in the women’s changing room. “You haven’t even asked what I want them for”, Bandit points out, to which Jäger’s annoyance spikes.

“Believe me, I really, _really_ don’t want to know!”

Sledge and Blitz exchange a quick glance and a secret smile. By now, a large portion of their time is spent on both despairing over and being entertained by their teammates’ antics, attempting to prevent as well as cleaning up after them. They bond over their exasperation, are united by the fact they’re the _responsible_ ones. It’s reassuring to know there’s someone Blitz can ask for advice.

“Don’t you trust me?” Bandit is sidling up to an increasingly irate Jäger who’s swatting his hands away.

“I trust you as far as I can throw you, you gremlin.”

“If everyone thought that way, Sledge would be one of the naïvest persons on the planet”, Blitz chimes in before he can help himself.

The Scotsman’s eyebrows lift. “Is that a challenge?”

Bandit immediately perks up and, to Jäger’s relief, directs all his attention to the other two operators. “How far _can_ you throw him, actually? I’m curious.”

And by then it’s too late. Blitz opens his mouth to object right before he’s basically tackled, the air in his lungs escaping with a short _oof_ , folds in half and is thrown over Sledge’s shoulder as easily as he’d pick up a sack of potatoes. His flailing and protesting is generously ignored and the last thing he sees before being sent flying are Bandit’s and Jäger’s faces lit up in barely held back glee – then Sledge _chucks_ him into the pool.

He surfaces, shaking the water out of his eyes and is confronted with three wide grins and one very confused expression. “What in the world are you doing?”, IQ asks.

“I’m still -” _Clothed_ , is what Blitz wants to say though it’s obvious they all knew and now he’ll have to somehow blow-dry his entire body before they can drive back. He can’t decide whether he’s miffed or amused or maybe the slightest bit turned on because Bandit is nodding now and says: “I didn’t see very well, but that could’ve been a solid two metres.”

Dripping wet, Blitz climbs out of the swimming pool and fixes Sledge with a level gaze. “I’m sorry, luv”, the Scotsman tells him and doesn’t look remorseful in the slightest.

“Sure”, Blitz replies loftily, stepping towards him, “let’s hug it out, why don’t we.” And with that, he presses the soaked length of his body against Sledge’s, laughing at his yelp of surprise, wrapping his arms around and rubbing up against him – making sure he’s not the only one who has to figure out how to dry off soon.

When they separate again, there’s a glint in Sledge’s eyes that lets Blitz forget all about the whole indignity.

 

The fourth time Sledge lifts Blitz, it’s wholly theirs and away from prying eyes, private and intimate and heady. Blitz’ feet don’t touch the floor for a good twenty minutes after which they’re both panting and red in the face but Sledge’s smile is blinding and the only thing Blitz can think is _I want to do this all over again_.

  
  


**3.1** Tachanka/Kapkan

 

Tachanka likes them young.

It’s just another bullet point on the list of quirks the operators in Rainbow have: Buck is addicted to maple syrup, Mira swears like a sailor in Spanish yet never in English, Rook has a rare talent of being able to throw crackers into people’s mouths from a distance and Chanka likes ‘em young. When it comes down to it, there’s nothing special about it, Jackal has a weird fixation on legs (or maybe just feet, really), Echo often comes back from off-duty days wearing a scarf and long sleeves, making sure he showers on his own, and Blitz gives off the impression to be attracted to anyone who’s competent in their field. Having a preference for younger people is hardly unusual.

Kapkan noticed early on – couldn’t help but notice, actually, watched as Tachanka kept pinching Glaz’ butt, meeting his angry glares and light punches with a full-bodied laugh; watched as Tachanka kept dropping hints around Mute seemingly only to make him and everyone around them uncomfortable; watched as Tachanka kept inviting Twitch out for drinks, winking and never letting her increasingly exasperated refusals deter him from trying again. Apart from bullying Glaz (and that hardly counts because _everyone_ bullies Glaz), he never acts on it, though. Not as far as Kapkan can tell.

When Finka joins them, Kapkan is delighted. They’ve established a friendship that started out as a competition, a fragile construct carefully nursed into something organic, both of them pouring their efforts into it so it never soured, never devolved into an unhealthy rivalry. The young Spetsnaz woman earned his attention, respect and companionship in that order and she’ll make a fine addition to Rainbow. She’s driven, resourceful, tough and clever, a good shot and an even better friend. There’s just one detail Kapkan forgot at first.

She’s young.

It’s to be expected that Tachanka makes a pass in pretty much the first sentence that he addresses at her – she’s beautiful, wild and remarkable. But Kapkan can only watch in horror as she returns the gesture, winks at the old man, jokes and smirks. No one has returned his advances before, even Tachanka is astonished and Kapkan commends her on being the first one to render him speechless on their very first meeting.

He doesn’t blame her. How could he, when he’s caught himself staring at Tachanka’s back so many times, find excuses to be around him, relish even the moments where he’s being teased and Tachanka prods the purple bruises on his skin while they’re changing. Once, he half-heartedly fought back and ended up pressed against the wall, a dark, dominant chuckle in his ear that unambiguously conveyed Tachanka’s superiority, the sound reverberating deep inside Kapkan. Even at his age, he can easily win in hand-to-hand combat. The thought of him sparring with Finka, touching her like he touched Kapkan makes his blood boil.

He doesn’t blame Finka. Instead, he listens to her inviting Tachanka out, them mocking each other, both giving as good as they get, and stays mute. He toys with the idea of asking her to stop though on which grounds? He owns no one yet is completely and wholly owned.

 

“We’re going out later, Chanka and I, do you want to join?” She always asks and he always declines, why she hasn’t understood he will never agree is unclear to him. She must’ve seen some of his frustration show on his face because she pauses instead of stepping out of the workshop, backtracks and crosses her arms in front of him like a stern mother. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” A hissed curse in his mother tongue attracts his attention, his eyes automatically drawn to the old man wrestling with one of his weapons on the other end of the large room.

“Maxim. We both know he prefers older guns”, Finka says enigmatically.

His brows furrow. “What?”

“He admires every new weapon he gets his hands on, but ultimately he always comes back to his old favourites.” Kapkan knows this. However, he understands neither why she’s telling him nor why she seems increasingly exasperated. “You know what? Watch. That’s all you do anyway.”

Slightly offended though he’s not entirely sure why, he does as he’s told, follows her with his eyes as she steps up to Tachanka and asks him something. Their conversation is short, he’s obviously too distracted to pay any heed to her and absent-mindedly steps aside when she leans closer to inspect what he’s doing. Nothing about it is unusual so Kapkan doesn’t understand her triumphant grin as he returns. “Go on”, she suggests and indicates the old man, “do the same I did. Ask him about what he’s doing – he certainly didn’t explain it to _me_.”

Thoroughly confused now, he walks over and doesn’t even need to announce his presence before Tachanka turns to him and grumbles: “This stupid thing is giving me grief again.”

“What’s wrong with it?” He eyes the machine gun curiously and regrets his inquiry only a few seconds later when he realises the old man has launched into one of his lengthy rants which are directed at Kapkan surprisingly often despite his limited knowledge. Only after Tachanka has begun taking the gun apart does he realise the significance of it and turns around to see Finka grinning in his direction. She can’t be serious, though. Just because – just because of this, it doesn’t mean -

The solid weight at his back registers too late; he’s accidentally leaned into the other man and finds him staring at him wordlessly when he snaps out of his momentary astonishment and turns back. “I’m sorry”, he rushes to say, “go on. I’m listening.” He moves away, only just enough so they’re not touching anymore and inhales very slowly when Tachanka is the one making their arms brush now as he explains the issue in detail, not stepping aside, radiating heat, if anything drifting even closer. Kapkan can feel Finka’s gaze in his back and feels slightly guilty for holding a grudge over nothing.

He also thinks he will join the two later today after all.

  
  


**3.2** Blitz/Rook

 

“Why would you ask _me_?” Blitz’ incredulity is genuine and a tad self-deprecating – he knows of his reputation around the base and so does _Rook_ so there’s no reason for him to approach _him_ of all people, none at all.

“Because you’re a guy”, the Frenchman says simply and shrugs, “and you’re reasonably straight. I’d like to hear your opinion.”

He sputters at the word _reasonably_ and even though part of him enjoys hearing Rook values his input, he’s a little miffed. Valentine’s day is approaching and the young operator has been fussing over it recently, refusing to disclose the identity of his crush or any details really, yet he keeps dropping hints about how much he’s looking forward, how he wants everything to be perfect. If Blitz is honest, it’s not so much irritating as… disheartening. “Look, I once managed to organise a double date and my friend went home with _both_ girls. I don’t think I can assist you in this.”

To Rook’s credit, he seems to try _really_ hard not to snort but the way he shakes slightly in suppressed laughter and his eyes light up says it all. Once he’s got himself under control again, he replies: “Alright, I’ll ask the others for their opinions on date ideas. But checking out all the locations is going to be incredibly boring on my own, would you at least accompany me?”

“Sure. If you want.” He doesn’t really want to play any part in this, would like to refuse his help out of spite and is even petty enough to hope Rook won’t find anything satisfactory. Still, he’s unable to decline when agreeing means Rook beams at him this sincerely and even awards him with a quick hug before skipping away.

 

“I’m not convinced”, Rook says for the probably sixth time this week and it’s only Tuesday. They’re eating refreshing ice cream by the town square, sitting on a bench, blinking into the sunlight and relaxing next to an old church, the square bordered by quaint little stores and narrow alleyways. The atmosphere is lovely and Blitz was savouring the moment up to the point where Rook rendered judgement.

“Of course you’re not”, he sighs, not even surprised. “You never are. At this point we could hire a professional and you’d still complain.”

The Frenchman shoots him an inscrutable look. “It seems like bad planning, don’t you think? Just drifting around aimlessly and then eating ice cream – even if it’s delicious, I have to say. We’d have to be able to hold a conversation the entire time.”

“Hey, we two have managed alright, don’t you think? And from what you said, you and your secret crush get along even better.”

Another _look_ that Blitz can’t interpret. Maybe Rook is having doubts about his plans to ask the mystery person out at all. Blitz wouldn’t mind if that were the case. “I just feel like we should explore more options.”

“More? Rook, _please_. I don’t even have enough fingers to list all the places we’ve been to. Restaurants, cafés, pubs, the zoo, we went playing billiards – where you _conned_ me, by the way -”

Rook laughs at the memory. “Well, you believed me when I said I’ve never played it before, so…”

“So you pretended to be terrible and convinced me to made a _bet_ with you, sure, that’s the next logical step.”

“How else am I supposed to keep you motivated for keeping up with this? You wanted to bail after the first two places.”

He did. Because it’s slightly weird, isn’t it? They’ve been practically glued together the past two weeks, visiting all sorts of romantic and non-romantic locations, chatting about everything and nothing and it’s not helping with the trepidation Blitz feels about the approaching day on which Rook wishes to consummate his love or something. “In any case, I believe you have enough to choose from by now.”

“Do I?” Rook throws him a side glance. “Which one is your favourite? Where would you personally want to go?”

“You know I don’t really care about Valentine’s day.” A patient nod. “Honestly? After we’ve done nothing but run around, I’d just want to stay home and watch a film.”

“That’s not very helpful”, the Frenchman complains but for some reason it sounds half-hearted.

 

When the doorbell rings, Blitz frowns at the time, quickly pulls on a hoodie that’s lying next to the sofa on which he’s been lazing around and pats out into the narrow hallway. He expects to be faced with the food he ordered not long ago yet instead is confronted with Rook instead, his friend and colleague dressed much more nicely than he himself is, carrying an expensive-looking bottle of wine and an inexplicable smile on his face. “Shouldn’t you be at your date?”, is the first thing on Blitz’ mind he allows himself to say because _I’m so glad to see you_ and _You look gorgeous_ are hardly acceptable.

“I got stood up”, Rook replies and is entirely too cheery about the whole thing – so joyous, in fact, that Blitz believes him to be in shock. “Can I come in?”

“Of course. I’m… sorry to hear that.” He is, he never wanted Rook to get hurt. It warms his heart to think that he trusts Blitz enough to come to him for solace, therefore solace he shall provide. “I ordered pizza and just started watching, you’re very welcome to join me.”

They end up drinking most of the wine and mocking the TV programmes, sharing the pizza and dashing out for more food, being rained on extensively and having a minor towel fight when Blitz refuses to let Rook dry his own hair. Towards midnight, they’re curled up on the couch, Rook having tried to initiate a playfight until Blitz held him still with an arm around his shoulders and now Rook’s head is nestled into the crook of his neck and he’s idly playing with Rook’s curls. “Shame you didn’t get to use any of the date ideas”, Blitz says absent-mindedly, basking in Rook’s body warmth.

“It’s alright”, comes the sleepy response, “I got everything I wanted for Valentine’s day.”

  
  


**3.3** Blitz/Rook

 

When Blitz enters the sterile room, Rook is currently giving a nurse the stink eye, switching on that special sickly sweet smile he reserves for people he can’t stand as soon as she turns to him, nods and then glares after her while she brushes past Blitz to leave. She seemed nice enough, so he sits down in the visitor’s chair with lifted brows. “What kind of louse ran over _your_ liver?”, he asks and is met with a truly frightening stare in return, coming from a truly frightening face that’s half bandaged up, bruised and swollen – together with the cast on Rook’s arm, it makes him look like he lost a vicious fight which isn’t exactly _untrue_. He fought his balance and lost.

“What in the _world_ ”, Rook starts and rolls his one eye to cut off Blitz’ explanation, “no, you know what, I don’t care. Your German idioms are terrible. Why would a louse be -”

“I’m also very glad to see you”, Blitz cuts him off and offers a friendly smile, leans over for a quick peck that is returned rather reluctantly. “How do you feel?”

“How do I _look_?”

“Gorgeous, as always.” At this, some of the grumpiness seeps out of what’s visible of Rook’s facial features – compliments, especially from Blitz, rarely fail to appease him, no matter the circumstances.

“I’m telling you, the nurse you just saw has it out for me. She seems to think I’m interested in her and reacted badly when I told her I’m not. I’m fairly sure she cheated me out of the chocolate pudding I was supposed to get for breakfast.”

“You don’t like chocolate pudding”, Blitz feels the need to point out and expects a petulant answer because he knows Rook despises hospitals almost as much as being injured.

Instead, he gets: “But you do.”

This makes him stop rummaging around in the bag he brought and he pushes it away, takes hold of his lover’s free hand and kisses the back of it, pulls it into his lap with a disarmed smile to gently caress the palm and fingers. “Thank you. But you do realise the reason she thought that is because you had your charm cranked to eleven last night?”

Rook’s eye goes wide in terror. “Did I flirt with her?”

“You flirt with everyone when you’re drunk. I’m fairly sure at some point you tried to chat up a coat stand and the way the other nurses looked at the chief nurse, they can’t have heard her giggle before.”

“Do you think they know why I’m here?”

“I’m fairly sure they don’t know the whole story, but you could’ve been in here because you tried to steal someone’s kid and got beaten up and they’d still adore you.”

“Is that your way of expressing how much you love me?”

“That’s my way of saying that I’m going to tell everyone you ran into a wall and fell down a flight of stairs because you couldn’t wait to blow your boyfriend in a dark alley. It won’t ruin your reputation but maybe they’ll stop fawning over you like this.” Rook pouts and somehow manages to make it look attractive despite the purple discolouring on his skin. He’s still pale though the white sheets probably don’t help with that, looks a little lost on the hospital bed and Blitz wants nothing more than to curl up to him and stroke his hair until he falls asleep. He always preferred to be the one in the hospital if it meant someone else wouldn’t be and, with Rook, his sympathetic pain is through the roof. “How’s your head?”

“Better, now that I’m all drugged up. You’re not even blurry anymore, so maybe they’ll allow me to leave today already.”

“You just want me to pamper you as soon as possible, admit it.”

Rook grins, obviously caught out, and nods towards his broken right arm. “Since _I_ can’t, you’ll have to take care of me, you know.”

“Boy, I bet it’s just _killing_ you that you can’t wink at me.” The laughter that bubbles out of the Frenchman at this warms Blitz’ heart, even more so when Rook seems decidedly cheerier afterwards. He’s mopey when sick, insufferable when restless and he always gets restless when he needs to stay in bed – it’s not as if he’d move much, only the fact that he _can’t_ makes it so much worse. Mostly, he’s like a greyhound, lazy but when he’s told to run, he _runs_. “But we both know you can _take care_ of yourself with either hand, so I have to do nothing of the sort.”

“If you want to cheer me up, that’d be the best way, though.” And with that, Rook’s hand in his lap first tries to wriggle its way to Blitz’ crotch and then to drag _his_ hand under the covers when he catches it at the wrist. “My roommate’s gone for a while. So…”

“So I’m still not going to give you a hand job in the hospital”, Blitz replies and while he allows his lover to guide his hand under the blanket, he merely strokes his belly, squeezes his hip reassuringly. “Especially not if you get to go home today or tomorrow. You’ll survive.”

Rook looks ready to protest, only then there’s a sound to which his expression quickly turns irritated for no reason and before Blitz’ mind registers it as the door opening, his lover is already pushing his hand away indignantly. He has no idea what’s going on until he catches sight of the visitor and then it’s all he can do not to roll his eyes. Recently, Rook has started a campaign to improve his working and personal relationship with Doc, meaning he tries his best to seem innocent and pure. Usually at Blitz’ expense.

He tries not to look guilty and fails miserably despite the fact he wasn’t actually _doing_ anything. “Hey, Doc.”

In return, he receives a cool stare that doesn’t warm up much as it glides over to the doctor’s teammate. “How are you doing, Julien?”, he asks and the additional _you idiot_ doesn’t need to be spoken out loud to be heard quite clearly.

For good measure, Rook scowls at an increasingly annoyed Blitz for a bit longer and then addresses Doc with a blinding smile: “I’m fine. Probably only a mild concussion and a clean break.” They continue to chat about the specifics of his injuries, largely ignoring Blitz who fights against the blush creeping up to his cheeks at Doc’s judgemental glances. “Oh, and I suppose there’s one thing.” Rook heaves a long-suffering sigh, fixes Blitz with an exasperated gaze and says: “I should ask you how soon I’ll be able to have sex again.”

Doc’s glare is _withering_. “Ideally, you should rest for as long as you’re healing but if it _can’t be helped_ , make sure you don’t move your arm too much or at all, really.”

“You hear that, mon cœur?”, Rook responds with a haughty attitude that has Blitz gritting his teeth and his cheeks darkening.

Once Doc has left again, not without another disapproving glance, Blitz crosses his arms and says levelly: “I _did_ bring you something to read so you’re not stuck with daytime TV but I think I’m going to take it back with me instead.”

Rook’s grin is so wide it surely must be causing him pain. “Do you think he’ll punch you if I say you accidentally tripped me down the stairs while groping me?”

“I have no idea why I even like you, you know that?”

The Frenchman does an exaggerated blink that probably is meant as a wink and replies: “You don’t like me. You _love_ me.”

And that, unfortunately, is very true.

  
  


**3.4** Jackal/Buck

 

Sitting there, a warm towel draped over the lower part of his face, leaned back in the comfortable chair and elbows lying on the arm rests, Jackal has to admit he’s slightly nervous. Suspiciously, he watches the Canadian gather various objects and line them up on his tidy desk, things with which Jackal feels he _should_ be familiar yet isn’t – the one that has him sweating is prettier than he’d thought, folded into smoothly curved dark red wood, looking expensive. He’s not entirely sure whether he’s looking forward to this or dreading it.

When Buck is satisfied, he turns around to him and laughs good-naturedly at his expression. “There’s no need to be scared, I did this all the time when I was younger. To other people, too, I had a friend who did it as well and we’d practise on each other.”

If Jackal wasn’t vaguely fearing for his life, he’d have pointed out how ambiguous those words sound. “When’s the last time you did it, though?”

“Ah, twenty years ago.” He can’t help but laugh again at the way Jackal’s eyes widen in shock. “Relax, probably last year. It’s not something to forget easily, the muscle memory is still there, just trust me.” Buck grabs the brush he’s been soaking in hot water, flicks off excess moisture and returns to the desk, starts lathering up the shaving cream of which he only used a dollop, much to Jackal’s confusion. “Have you really never been shaved with a straight razor?”, Buck asks curiously. “Even though there aren’t many, we have some barbershops that do it.”

“No, I shave normally like any other mortal.” The quip earns him an amused grin that reminds him once more of why he enjoys Buck’s company so much – he’s quick to entertain and extremely hard to anger. “My… my brother taught me how to shave. He was terrible at it, too, but he did his best. I still have a scar from it.”

Buck steps up to him, removes the towel from his face and brushes his fingertips over Jackal’s cheeks, a gesture that’s either meant to be comforting or merely testing whether his skin is warm and soft enough or both. “My dad taught me to shave with a straight razor and bought me this one as a gift for my 18th birthday. When I told him I want to practise shaving other people, he put shaving cream on a balloon and told me I wasn’t allowed until I can shave it off without popping the balloon. He did it in the living room and it was my first try – of course _I_ had to clean it all up afterwards.”

Though this doesn’t exactly fill Jackal with confidence, it distracts him from memories that have never stopped hurting. Yet another reason why he appreciates Buck: the man never fails to cheer him up. He refrains from an answer as Buck starts applying the smooth lather to his face and his neck with elegant, fluid swirling motions that do speak of extensive practise, the brush unexpectedly soft. He purses his lips so nothing gets in his mouth and marvels at how thick the cream is, it can’t have been cheap. Maybe he should invest in better products, too.

Once Buck is done, he picks up the beautiful razor, unfolds it and steps behind him. “If I’m too rough or anything’s wrong, just let me know. Though cuts with a blade this sharp don’t usually hurt.” He grins at the glare Jackal sends him upside down and bends over him, gently pulls at the skin of his cheek and starts with a clean stroke of the razor, careful and slow so it feels more like caressing than shaving. The blade glides over Jackal’s skin without any resistance and after a few more strokes, he begins to relax into the routine, actually starts enjoying the soft touches, Buck’s warm fingers, the gentle presses indicating how he should tilt and turn his head.

Buck’s face is closer than normal though his attention is focused on his actions and less on Jackal himself, his brows drawn together in concentration, his breath measured and his eyes alert. This is what he looks like when they’re doing particularly gruelling training, most everything else rarely requires all of Buck’s attention so he usually has ample opportunity to crack jokes. It’s… touching that he expends the effort to do this so meticulously, has even bought most of the paraphernalia for this special occasion. When he suggested it, Jackal was genuinely surprised but agreed easily. He doesn’t regret it, the repetitive strokes are soothing and Buck’s proximity even more so.

“You could probably grow a killer beard”, the Canadian states as he relocates to Jackal’s other side and pauses to give him a chance to answer, “why don’t you?”

“Keeping a well-groomed beard is even more effort than shaving every few days. I learned that the hard way, mine never was as nice as yours.”

Buck returns to his task and carefully slides the blade down Jackal’s neck, the feeling strange though not in a bad way – Jackal trusts him fully, knows the Canadian is nothing but reliable. “You don’t really need it anyway. You have a really attractive jaw line.”

“Do I?” Their eyes meet and the flattered smile that was threatening to show on his face slowly dies the longer he looks into those light blue eyes that seem to pierce his directly.

“Yeah”, Buck replies simply.

It takes longer than anticipated, Buck ends up doing three passes and explains to him that it’s necessary for a perfect shave. By the end, Jackal is restless for no other reason than being lavished with this much attention feels weirdly intimate, even more so when Buck keeps up the soft touches and brushes against Jackal too much for it to be accidental. The room feels considerably warmer and he blinks dazedly for a moment when Buck tells him to rinse with cold water, momentarily forgetting how his body works. Buck insists on being the one to apply aftershave as well, the scent he chose sharp though not unpleasant, the gesture allowing for even more direct contact that leaves him slightly off-kilter.

However, Jackal is more than happy with the result, his cheeks haven’t been this smooth for probably _decades_. “I’m impressed”, he tells Buck sincerely, “I should really get one myself.”

“I’m glad you like it. Because I got one for you.” And to Jackal’s bewilderment, he pulls out a brand new razor out of his pocket, the handle black and engraved with intricate designs; it’s stunning and Jackal can’t _believe_ it. “I know you told me not to get you anything, but it’s your 50th birthday. How could I _not_?”

The gesture is so sweet, Jackal so moved that he wordlessly pulls the Canadian into a tight hug, his well-maintained beard surprisingly not scratchy on his freshly shaved skin. “Thank you, really”, he says quietly and relishes the feeling of strong arms encircling his waist, “also, how is your beard so _soft_?” Buck chuckles and is still smiling sheepishly when they pull apart slightly, Jackal’s hands coming up to feel his facial hair. It’s uninvited but Buck doesn’t seem to mind as Jackal strokes it, brushes his thumbs over his cheekbones, splays his fingers over his jaw and Buck’s hands haven’t left his sides yet and they’re still _looking_ at each other and then there are stray hairs tickling Jackal’s upper lip as he leans in.

 

Later, Mira catches Jackal wandering through the canteen aimlessly and calls out to him. “Hey, you look good! I knew you wouldn’t regret agreeing. So Buck didn’t stab you after all, eh?” She laughs cheerfully.

“No, Elena”, Jackal reassures her, still with a slightly stunned expression, “no, no, he did.” And he decides to leave it at that, doesn’t comment on her confused face.

  
  


**3.5** Jackal/Buck

 

It was stunning.

The design purposefully not elaborate, far from flashy and elegant in its simplicity, platinum polished to perfection, a matte stripe weaving its way around the outer side, being the only decoration on the otherwise plain band. Resting in dark blue satin, it seemed to wait for the perfect moment, suspended, frozen in time, patiently awaiting the day where it’s freed from its prison and slid onto an eager digit, promising eternity, serendipity and, most of all, happiness; the gesture one of indescribable emotion, a final commitment, evidence of sincerity, devotion and love.

It’s vanished.

Two, three days after … _after_ , Buck remembers it amid piercing pain, forces his grief-stricken body to drag itself around their flat ( _his_ flat now, the realisation blinding and punching the air out of his lungs like a blow to his chest) and searches desperately. It’s not where it was before. The box is gone, a pair of socks having taken its place in cruel mockery, it seems to jeer at Buck as he rips the entire drawer out and turns it upside down, shakes it until everything has fallen onto the floor, underwear, more socks, things Jackal hasn’t worn for at least a year, pieces of him, dead skin, hairs, traces that in time will fade, be removed by an unmerciful cleaner. Now they’re all piling up and they smell of him and Buck sways unsteadily on his feet, all of his instincts drawing him to the messy heap of assorted things now rendered useless. Because they don’t have an owner anymore.

He resists the urge to bury himself in them because he has to find it. He has to. There’s no way around it, his mind is singularly focused now, won’t allow him any other course of action other than taking everything apart.

When he comes up for air again, it’s all broken. There’s a piece of glass sticking out of his palm and he doesn’t remember how it got there, turns around, mutely examines the mess that once was a shared household, a sanctuary, the centre of everything that meant anything. He needs someone else to help him so he can upturn the furniture, maybe it rolled under the sofa. Maybe it fell between the armchair and the wall. It all looks like a fever dream, blurred and fleeting and he belatedly realises he’s crying, moves to wipe his tears away and comes back with crimson hands. It wasn’t just one piece. His cheek hurts where he cut himself.

He doesn’t find it.

 

At the funeral, he’s oddly detached. He has no more tears to give after all the ones he paid, his debt is long settled and yet he still offered more, at home, at night, in bathroom stalls, in his car. His speech is short and delivered with a shaky voice, insulting Jackal by attempting to summarise him in words where he needed to be _experienced_. Yet everyone nods solemnly as if he could ever do him justice after failing him, committing the worst atrocity known to man: he killed him. In a way, it was him taking aim, peering through the eyeholes in the colourless mask, squeezing the trigger. A moment of uncertainty, a fraction of a second of inattentiveness. His punishment is clear, his penance laid out – he has to live with himself and the vivid images haunting him during the times where he’s meant to recover from being alive. Sleep terrifies him.

He doesn’t deserve it. He firmly believes this by now. That’s why he can’t find it: he’s not worthy of such a memento.

 

The base is _wrong_. It’s a book without print. It’s a film in a language no one understands but everyone pretends to anyway. Or maybe Buck is the only one who doesn’t speak it, is left to drift aimlessly through the days, alienated and acutely aware of his otherness. Jackal is the space between his hands, he is everything Buck touches, looms in the corner of his eyes, his easy laughter echoing in the distance. The shooting range harbours his most tangible ghosts, Buck is forced to leave after a few heartbeats because warm fingers close over his, guide his aim, correct his stance like they did so many times before, soft lips touch his just like the very first time, he feels the cold concrete wall pressing against his back and a slender body in his arms. When there’s endless sky above him once again, he sucks in air so hard his vision darkens and someone pats him on the back reassuringly. They all know and none of them _understand_.

He itches everywhere, his legs ache where he scratched them bloody last night and so he puts them to use, walks without seeing and wishing it would end. Wishing it had been him.

Buck despises the pity in Montagne’s expression because he knows how pathetic he is, he’s terrified of the sympathy in Twitch’s because she holds the words that would make him realise just how gut-wrenchingly vicious life is and Rook…

They were friends. Unlikely ones, too, opposites in their outlook on the world. Buck had the impression the young operator managed to relieve some of Jackal’s bitterness, smooth his edges, balance him out. He’s not noticed Buck’s presence. He’s staring into space, his thumb rubbing over his other hand. The sunlight reflects on the polished surface under his fingertip.

Rook’s grief mirrors his own, ugly, furious, futile, pitiable, though he slinks out of every room Buck happens to be in, seemingly because his sorrow already takes up the entire space, fills every crack. He thought Rook didn’t want to burden him. He thought it was a sign of respect. He thought Rook was grieving for a _friend_.

Compared to his own, Rook’s fingers are slender and graceful. The ring is stunning and fits him perfectly. There’s no margin for error. Buck’s heart shatters.

He knows Buck’s seen it and covers it up regardless, bends away under the weight of his gaze, blinks back tears to which he has no _right_ , has the audacity to show him unambiguously there’s no remorse. There won’t be an apology. He genuinely believes to be entitled to it, to be _allowed_ to exist. Rook thinks he’s in the right. He thinks he’s the one. He thinks he deserves the beautiful, simplistic metal that adorns his hand.

He might be right.

It was never meant for Buck.

It was never meant for him.

He didn’t find it before because it wasn’t his to find.

It was never meant to be a constant reminder of what they had because they had nothing. He knows this now.

It was never meant for him.

He feels like vomiting.

 

The shooting range holds memories. It was one of their havens, filled with laughter and soft gasps and marrow-deep conversations that changed lives.

This night, only one sound fills out the large room, reverberating for no more than a second, the noise familiar and not at all strange, the old walls well acquainted with it. Usually, others follow it in kind.

This night, it’s only one.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for any mistakes, these are not proof read and partly written while drunk or in a very short amount of time, so they might be rough.  
> Also, please note I'm open for requests♥ Here are [my guidelines](http://kiruuuuu.tumblr.com/post/171896079889/though-snippet-requests-are-open-please-take-a) and you can either leave a comment on here or send me an ask on tumblr! It just might take me a bit to get to them :)


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